New Beginnings
by hashtag-not-moriarty
Summary: It's been three years since their mutually-faked suicides. It's time for Sherlock and Moriarty to meet.
1. Chapter 1

He'd spent nearly three years hiding in the shadows, and it had become boring. Even as a child, he'd been able to kill to keep his mind off the boredom and to punish those people he felt like punishing. But all this time, he hadn't been able to kill anyone or do anything to stop the breakdown of his criminal network; he hadn't wanted Sherlock to notice him before he was ready.

Because he had big plans in store. And so he contented himself with preparing for his big reveal.

He hadn't yet decided when to show his message. He wanted to shock the world - but most particularly Sherlock - as much as possible. But all that went down the drain when he heard of what Sherlock had done.

"Oh, Sherlock. You naughty boy," he had grinned. His enemy had dropped from his place with the angels, and his brother was dealing out consequences. It was wonderful, but also possibly deadly - if he allowed Sherlock to die, then he'd become more bored than he had ever been. He couldn't allow that to happen.

So he pressed the button, and let his message ring out across the world.

_Did you miss me?_

Of course they did; even ordinary people got bored, and the end of Charles Augustus Magnussen signalled a hell of a lot of boredom thanks to the information that died with him.

He did loathe that man. All that power at his fingertips, and what does he do? He blackmails his way to the top of the chain. No understanding of the honour of the underdog. It was despicable.

As was what Moriarty planned to do.


	2. Chapter 2

Last time he came up against Sherlock Holmes, he'd had a strong 'web' as Sherlock had aptly monikered it, but this time – this time, Moriarty had something better than a load of criminals and a fake bullet. Round one had just been to see what Sherlock was capable of – apparently, dying for his friends wasn't really on his to-do list. Neither, it seemed, was dying for Jim, for grief of him. If the man ever let himself be afraid of his pain, he'd be terrified of that fact. But he didn't. And so he wasn't.

Honest.

His plan was simple, but he had a feeling that it would work in his favour – Sherlock always looked for the little things, not the big thing that would be staring him solidly in the face. Moriarty smiled as he watched the ordinary newscasters try to hide the fear on their faces as they spoke about him; called his message a fake; impossible. As annoying as they were, there was occasionally something endearing about these people. They had an uncanny knack for being blind to the obvious facts, simply through the beautiful human virtue of lying to themselves. Sherlock was similar to them in that way, in the belief that everything has to be deduced because, if it didn't – well, where would he be? Moriarty didn't know, but he was hoping to find out.

He was hoping to find Sherlock's breaking point.

With another smile, he switched off the television and fished his phone – an old thing, given to him by his mother many years ago – out of his pocket.

"Tom? Yeah, it's Jim. Fancy going out tonight?" His voice was loud and rough as he said it. "Yeah, out with the boys. Just like old times. I've seen the TV, yeah. Why do you think I want to go out?" Tom said something boring about a girlfriend and safety. "Oh, the one who helped Sherly? Fine, bring her along. It's fine, it's fine. Perfectly safe. Trust me, Tom. Okay? Yeah. See you at the usual." He turned the phone off – didn't want Tom backing out as he always did – and sighed. If he was ordinary like Molly's on-and-off-again boyfriend, he would have thought going out in public on the day he was all over the news was a bad idea. He would have expected to get arrested.

But he wasn't ordinary, and he had a plan. He took out another phone – the one that one of Sherlock's very own homeless network had been kind enough to keep a hold of for the correct amount of money and death threats – and texted a familiar number, one that (if he was a lesser man) would have made shivers race down his spine.

_Meet me 3. I'll be at The Horse and Cart between nine and twelve – JM._

Then he turned that phone off too, just in case Sherlock had gotten bored of their cat-and-mouse games while he'd been away. He doubted it, but then his back-stabbing informants had told him that things were different now. Sherlock was vulnerable. He got _drunk. _And not just to the level at which he would get the maximum buzz without the harmful side effects. No, he'd got well and truly pissed. After the stag night, Moriarty's informants had told him, Sherlock had seemed to enjoy the self-flagellation of getting drunk and beat up and having an epic hangover. John was away with Mary more often than the poor man would like, and apparently he'd found a new way to keep himself human.

Or maybe it was a kink. Somehow, Moriarty preferred that theory. However, it wasn't very Sherlock. But then, to be fair, none of this was very Sherlock, and if any part of Moriarty's plan could be considered dangerous, it would be bringing his enemy into the equation.

He'd just have to hope he could still pull his strings.

At around seven o'clock, Moriarty made his way to the pub that he had taken Tom and his other ex-colleagues to every week while they were still recording those stupid story time shows. At first, he'd just not wanted to put his real name to something so boring, but it had come in handy during his first round with Sherlock. It was convenient – although if anyone had asked, he would have said he'd had it planned all along.

The pub was busy; busy enough that no one would notice the tired looking guy wearing washed-out jeans and a scruffy t-shirt. He looked just like everybody else in this place; even with his face plastered all over the media, it would be unlikely that anyone would recognise him from the TV. He was more at risk of people recognising him as a regular, and, in a city like London, in a tourist trap like this, it wasn't something he was expecting.

He wove his way through the crowd of foreigners who wanted to experience a British pub and the disgruntled regulars who always seemed to forget that their local was full of tourists and found Tom and Molly sat at a corner table, looking awkward. None of the other guys were with them.

Moriarty shrugged inwardly. He had wondered how his colleagues had taken the news that he was a criminal – apparently his charming personality hadn't won out as much as he'd thought when they had kept their silence during the first round. Even Tom wasn't a victim of the charm; the kid was only here because he shared Jim's fascination with the bad guys. He wondered what had made him think bringing Molly was a good idea. His informants told him that Molly didn't seem to know of their connection, and meeting him at a pub seemed like a ridiculous way to find out. Perhaps Tom sensed the same thing Moriarty's informants did – that Molly was less than impressed with him. Molly, Jim had come to realise, wasn't ordinary – or at least, not as ordinary as most of the apes on this planet. Her speciality was empathy and dead bodies rather than twisted tales of crime, but it was intelligence all the same.

"Tom," Moriarty said, patting the kid on the back in a rough way. The TV crew had always preferred this persona to the well-spoken one he used in front of the cameras, and so he had stuck to it.

Molly straightened in her chair, turning away from the wall she'd been staring at to look at her ex. "Jim," she whispered as her face drained of blood.

He smiled. "Your girlfriend's prettier than I thought she'd be, Tommy." He slapped the kid on the back again for good measure. "Well done mate."

Tom laughed awkwardly and played with the scarf tied around his neck. "Thanks. Um, Molly, you've… heard of Jim. We worked on that kids' show together?"

She nodded, her mouth open. "Excuse me. I think I'll… I'm going to go to the bathroom, if you don't mind." She stood up, but Moriarty caught her arm.

"Don't worry. Sherlock already knows. In fact, he's the last actor in our little play. He's the one we're waiting on."

Fire flashed in her eyes, and she shook him off. "Thanks, but I think I'll still call the police anyway."

Moriarty laughed. "And say what? They have nothing on me other than lying in a newspaper. Can I go to jail for that?"

Molly seemed to remember that he had already walked out of a court that was trying to punish him for his crimes. "When will Sherlock be here?"

He smiled. "I'm sure he'll be here soon. How about we play a game to kill some time? Tommy, you up for a game of murder?"

The kid looked nervously at Molly. "Um, I don't think–"

"Yes," Molly said bravely. "Let's play murder."

Moriarty laughed – Molly had got braver since the last time he'd seen her. "Good. I love these games."

Tom and Molly didn't look as enthused, but he wasn't surprised; Tom had just ruined his relationship and Molly was clearly just playing for time until Sherlock got here. In a way, she was just like Moriarty.

"Okay, children, listen up," he said, snapping into story-telling mode. "Once upon a time, there was a very, very bad man. That very, very bad man was so very, very bad that he decided to lie to all of his friends and pretend that he was dead. How do you suppose he did it?"

"This isn't a murder game," Molly said shakily. "You just want to know how Sherlock did it."

He smiled a hard smile. "I can make it a proper murder game if you want."

She shook her head and looked at her watch, as if wondering where Sherlock was. Moriarty found it odd that she didn't seem to think that he'd lied to her about Sherlock turning up. He wasn't always a man of his word, after all.

"Okay then, so – the very, very bad man pretended he was dead. But how did he trick all of his smart little friends? What do you think, Molly?"

"He had help," he saw her mouth. She obviously knew where this was going.

He smiled and clapped his hands together. "He had help. Yes. And how did these people help him, Molly?"

She looked away, refusing to answer, and the smile fell from Moriarty's face. All that was left was rage. He didn't care that she'd help Sherlock fake his death; if anything, he was pleased. But not explaining it… it made his blood boil. It wasn't that he needed to know; he already had multiple theories, and he was sure that when Sherlock appeared they'd tell each other their secrets out of simple curiosity. What bothered him was that she wasn't afraid of him. Not enough, anyway.

"Well then," Moriarty began, before getting distracted by a noise somewhere in the pub. He turned around and saw the unmistakeable sight of the London Metropolitan Police Department trying to shove their way through a crowd.

Right on time. He'd thought Sherlock might use his friend Lestrade for back-up.

But Sherlock wasn't there. And it wasn't just Lestrade – there were more than two dozen officers trying to shove their way in.

_But Sherlock wasn't there. _Moriarty unconsciously clenched his fists. He knew what this meant; Sherlock wasn't as bored as he used to be. He didn't need to live as dangerously. He'd become more ordinary. Two years ago, he would have jumped at the chance to confront a dangerous criminal. But now? He sends the police to do it for him.

_Ordinary._

The police officers finally reached him, and he stood quietly as Lestrade mentioned some vague reason for taking him in – a robbery that a desperate criminal had pinned on him. They were clutching at straws that wouldn't land them in court for breaking double jeopardy laws. However, there were still straws there. It looked like he'd have to wait a few hours to see Sherlock.

But he could do that. If anything, it helped his plan. Sherlock, however, didn't.


	3. Chapter 3

"Can you tell us where you were on the fourteenth of July of this year?" Lestrade asked, pacing the room. This was the seventeenth time he'd asked the question – he was using very basic tricks to try and get Moriarty to snap – and they were both kind of tired of it.

"Can you tell me where _you_ where, Inspector?" Moriarty replied for the seventeenth time. "You seem awfully reticent on the subject."

Lestrade just shook his head and switched to another tactic. "Are the artefacts part of a greater plan?"

Moriarty smiled. This was a new one; it had been seventeen full cycles of the same questions, and only now was he getting down to what he wanted to know. He clearly thought patience was a virtue. "No. No plan. No relics." He raised his eyebrows at the last word and gave a quick glance to Lestrade's grey and receding hair line.

The inspector didn't seem to know what to say, as if he'd expected Moriarty to tell him everything at the slightest nudging. "We can get Sherlock in here if you want."

They were desperate enough to break protocol – or rather, _he_ was; Moriarty hadn't seen another officer all day. The amusement tamped down his anger at Sherlock as it began to rise, and he gave the logical reply, "No." Sherlock could wait. It wouldn't be long now.

Lestrade sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. "Okay. Recording stopped at three oh-two PM." He walked over to the table and pressed the stop button. "Mycroft is outside. Sherlock is with him."

Moriarty kept silent, enjoying Lestrade's frustration.

"Mycroft also brought a few friends along from Serbia. They're experts in torture." A pause. "You can either answer to me or answer to them."

The consulting criminal shook his head in amusement; Mycroft didn't have any friends in Serbia – he had made sure of that himself. "Well, I'm not talking to you. It's boring."

Lestrade hung his head. "Would you like to talk to Sherlock? Last chance."

_Yes. _He wanted to talk to Sherlock more than anything. He wanted to shout at him, he wanted to speak so quietly that the man could barely hear; he wanted to do something that would evoke a reaction of some sort – some interest. But not here, with handcuffs on his wrists and a tape recorder on the table. "No."

"Mycroft, then?" The Inspecotr's voice was defeated; he clearly didn't want this to end in torture any more than his suspect. Either he was a better actor than Moriarty believed, or he honestly didn't know that the men outside were neither Serbian nor torturers. Or he was telling the truth – Moriarty dismissed the idea immediately; his arrest had been too public for them to squirrel him away to one of Mycroft's barely-legal hidey-holes.

He wondered what Mycroft was thinking, threatening violence when they both knew he wasn't capable of fulfilling his threat. He had heard from his informants that Mycroft considered himself the smarter of the two Holmes brothers, but it seemed like an incredulous claim right now. "Fine."

Lestrade sighed in relief and stuck his head out of the interrogation room's door. "Get Mycroft, will you?"

"Jim," Mycroft nodded, greeting the man with an almost friendly tone in his voice – he even swung his umbrella for effect. "You'll be happy to know that I sent my friends back home."

Moriarty slouched back into his chair and chewed at the gum Lestrade had brought him out of relief of not having a torture session in his station. "Where to? Hackney, was it?"

He tilted his head. "The West End. It seems that Greg can't tell the difference between Polish builders and Serbian Mafiosos."

Moriarty smiled. "Makes you worried for the state of the country, doesn't it?"

Mycroft raised his eyebrows and sat down. "I was hoping to talk to you, Jim."

"That why you brought the Serbians? Trying to get me interested?" He licked his lips and gave the man a smouldering look.

Mycroft looked less than impressed and more than discomforted. "Something like that, yes. Jim…"

"Yes…?"

Mycroft sighed. "I want you to keep away from my brother. Do whatever you want, but don't hurt my brother."

Well that was unexpected. "Odd, coming from the big brother who sent him off to be killed in Eastern Europe."

"I had no choice. It wasn't my decision to make."

Moriarty scoffed, but didn't contradict The British Government Himself.

"Will you look after him, Jim?"

He leaned forward, even more interested. "Now, that's a whole different thing, Mike. And I don't know that I can do either."

"Don't lie to me. It wasn't coincidence that allowed my brother dearest to run about the continent for so long without a scratch. Nor is it coincidence that you revealed yourself when you did."

Moriarty set his jaw. Perhaps Mycroft _was_ the smarter Holmes brother. "If Sherlock isn't around, I have to talk to you to keep myself from getting bored. He just happens to be more… peppy about it than you do."

Mycroft shook his head. "You are obsessed with my brother, Mr Moriarty; let's just make it an obsession that keeps him alive, shall we?"

"I can't promise that; my toys tend to get broken."

Mycroft stood up. "Well, you don't have to worry about that; my brother is already broken." He began walking towards the door.

Moriarty's heart leapt and he grabbed the other man's wrist as he walked past. "What do you mean by that?"

Mycroft looked down, disgusted, and pulled his arm away, reaching for his hand sanitiser. "Surely you're informants have told you about the drinking? The drugs? He gets in fights; most of his Homeless Network daren't speak to him any longer due to his moods. I don't know what you did to him, Jim, but you already broke him." He breezed past the criminal and slammed the door behind him.

Broken? The idea seemed ludicrous. Sherlock, broken? By what? Was it his live-in, ordinary pet getting married? Was it the two years away from his home town? It couldn't have been their respective fake suicides – that was an amusement, nothing more.

Still, Moriarty didn't doubt Mycroft's understanding of the situation – just a day or so ago, he himself had been revelling in the change that had seemed to come across his rival. He'd decided that it represented his fall from the side of the angels. But was that really it?

He smiled. Whatever the answer, this was going to be fun.


	4. Chapter 4

Two hours later, Moriarty walked out of Scotland Yard a free man. Lestrade had frowned as he'd taken the handcuffs off, but when Her Majesty's Government rushes a release there's not much you can do.

Moriarty smiled as he sauntered up Baker Street with his hands in his pockets and chewing gum in his mouth. It was almost as if he was home again. He let himself into 221 with the key one of his spies had filched from John Watson and jogged up the stairs to Sherlock's apartment.

The room was as he remembered it – clutter and files, thoughts and furniture everywhere; he was in the middle of a case, it seemed. Not busy enough to be out and about, though – he sat in his arm chair, looking pensive.

"John, fetch me –" He glanced up, his eyes widening as he took in the image that, it seemed, he hadn't believed could be real.

"Sorry," Moriarty laughed. "Not him, I'm afraid. I can pretend to be, if you'd like?" He slouched down and put on the most insulting expression of idiocy that he could manage.

Sherlock stood up and gestured to the arm chair he'd been sitting in. Moriarty made sure to take the other one, just as he'd done last time – though, this time, it was John's chair he was sitting in. Sherlock sure had become more human.

"De ja vu," Moriarty muttered.

"I'd ask why you're here, but I don't imagine there's a real reason." Sherlock sank back into his chair, and Moriarty took a good look at him. He was thin, thinner than before. His eyes were red, as if he'd been crying or drinking, and his suit was dirty and unkempt – but not from forgetting to change in the midst of an exciting case; no, this was laziness. This was horror at having killed a man for the first time – Moriarty remembered his own virginal experience well, and it was horrible. It had eaten him alive until he realised that he was superior to the boy he'd killed.

"Of course there's a reason. It's been almost three years, Sherlock. Don't you think we should catch up? Swap notes, maybe?"

The great detective smiled without humour, his eyes focussed on some spot above Moriarty's head. "You want to know how I did it."

"Of course not. I want to know if you can tell me how _I_ did it."

"I can." Sherlock's eyes locked onto Moriarty's with an intensity he didn't think he would see from the drug-addled man.

Moriarty sat back in his chair. "Go on then."

"No."

He shook his head. "You can't do it. You don't know. You're even more ordinary than the last time I saw you." He tapped out a section of Bach just to annoy his rival, but he didn't seem to notice.

"This is what you get off on – your excitement stems from knowing if you've beaten me or not." Sherlock nodded to himself. "That's why you're here."

Moriarty paused before speaking, struck by the blatant idiocy of his rival. Was he putting it on? Or did the drugs affect him even more than Moriarty had heard? "Murder doesn't suit you, Sherlock. It makes you weak."

At 'murder', Moriarty he saw Sherlock's pupils dilate a shocking amount, and his face became even paler than it had been before. He steepled his fingers and tapped them against his lips in an erratic rhythm.

"Sherlock?" Moriarty asked, trying to hide his uncertainty and unease, even though the man opposite him seemed to have disappeared into a completely different world.

He roused himself. "Your gun was fake – it shot fake rounds. You held my hand so I couldn't move away and be able to see it in a better light. The blood was fake, of course. You knew that I'd be too surprised to check for a pulse or anything similar, and so you just lay there until I'd jumped. Then you used the same trick as me, bringing in a body that you could make to look like your own and leaving it in your place. Simple."

Moriarty stopped tapping Bach's concerto. "Clever." _Simple. _His next little game was going to be a lot less interesting if that was the level to which Sherlock reasoned. He hid his thoughts behind a manic mask and grinned. "Do you want me to do the same? Fair's fair."

"No. I told Anderson; the video is probably all over the internet by now. I'll never know if you knew because you saw the video or because you deduced it."

He laughed at the deliberate ploy. "You lied to Anderson, Sherlock."

"Did I?" Sherlock looked startled, as if he wasn't quite sure where he was or what he was doing. "Oh. Yes, yes, you're right. Well done. Would you mind leaving now and getting off on someone else's inferiority?"

"You didn't answer my invitation." He was getting more and more worried for Sherlock's mental capabilities as time went on. His rival seemed erratic and confused, which meant his game might need to be postponed. Moriarty hated dragging things out.

"I forgot. It wasn't interesting enough to hold my attention. I'm working on a case."

The excuses didn't seem to fit each other or the context, but they still made Moriarty's blood boil. Since when was he more boring than a run-of-the-mill serial killer? Since when was he forgettable? Since when was shooting up a better way to get high than a battle of wits? "Do you remember what I used to say, Sherlock? _I will burn the heart out of you. _And I'm not done with that yet." He stood up, grabbing Sherlock's phone from the side table – he wasn't going to notice it missing any time soon, and if he did? Well, it just made the game more exciting. He slipped the phone into one pocket and got his own phone out of another pocket as he walked out the door. "Goodbye, Sherlock," he said as he tapped at the keys.

_ Get your brother off the drugs or I can't guarantee he'll survive this – JM._


	5. Chapter 5

Moriarty's next house-call was going to give him the answers he needed – he was sure of it. He would find out why John had left his flatmate to do this alone, even though Sherlock had done it _for_ him. He would find out what he could do to fix Sherlock. He would make John realise his crimes against the man for what they were.

Unfortunately, it didn't quite work out like that.

When Moriarty knocked on the Watsons' door, it wasn't John who opened it.

"Annie," he said, surprised; he'd been so caught up in his game that, for just a moment, he'd forgotten things had changed. He smiled – this could work out equally well. "Is John in?"

She frowned, clearly frightened but more than determined not to show it. "If you touch a hair on his head –"

"Is that really what you're most worried about, Annie?" He cocked his head. "I'm not going to hurt John. Not yet, anyway. Is he in?"

She shook her head, one hand on her stomach and another reaching behind her towards a side table. "He's at work."

Moriarty tutted. "I wouldn't do that if I were you, Annie. Shooting me in broad daylight wouldn't endear you to John. Besides, you look ready to pop – don't want to be having that baby in prison, do you?"

Mrs Watson took her hand away from the drawer where she kept her gun. "Please leave, Jim. Just go."

He laughed. "I don't know how you believed you could outrun your past, Annie – of all people you should know that it's never going to happen. John's going to find out that you were the one aiming at his head soon enough."

"What do you want, Jim?"

He smiled. "That's the spirit. I'd like you to help me with something. I need you to shoot Sherlock again. But this time, make sure you finish the job, will you?" Killing his rival wasn't really Moriarty's plan – it would be majorly counter-intuitive – but he did want to see how far his ex-associate would go to keep her sordid past quiet. "Don't forget that I created your new identity for you; I could easily take it away again, even if it turned out that John didn't care. Which is unlikely."

She sneered. "The last person who tried to blackmail me died, Jim – and he had a hell of a lot more balls than you do. Do you really think that you can get away with this?"

"Honey, it wasn't you that finished the job. It was Sherlock. I think I'll be fine." He ground his teeth; it had been a long time since Annie had said no to him, and it grated that she'd compared him to that scumbag Magnussen. "Will you do it, or do I have to find someone more qualified?"

"Do it yourself. If you think you can," she added, before slamming the door in his face.

"I will fucking _end_ you!" He shouted through the door. Who did she think she was?

He took a deep breath and turned on his heel. It didn't matter; the joke was on her.

She'd need a much better security system than one lock and a gun to keep him out.

_There is nothing I can do about my brother's habits. There never has been. Don't forget your promise – MH._

Moriarty shook his head as he looked down at the message on his phone. The eldest Holmes brother could very well do something about Sherlock's 'habits', as he called them – he just didn't want to get on the bad side of a clever drug addict.

It was a good job that Moriarty didn't have such concerns. It gave him more work, but it would add an interesting dynamic to their next meeting, when Sherlock found out who had forced him to go cold turkey.

He clicked through his contacts and pressed call. "Seb, I need you to shut down any drug dealers within a ten-mile radius of Baker Street. No excuses. By tomorrow. Yes. Bye." He hung up and was instantly onto another contact, telling them something similar. Sherlock would be sober and ready to play within the next few days, as long as he hadn't been taking enough to cause dangerous withdrawal symptoms.

And as long as the pain of being coherent knocked the self-pitying guilt out of his system.

He shook his head to rid himself of thoughts of Sherlock – they wouldn't help him do what he'd wanted to when he'd gone to the Watsons'. He took out Sherlock's phone and copied John's number into his own mobile, then pressed call.

"Dr John Watson speaking," John said after picking up on the first ring. "Who is this?"

"John, long time no see," Moriarty said, making his accent stronger so that the idiot would work out who he was quicker. "How are you? I heard you've got a wife now. And how's Sherlock?" He put a bite into the last sentence that caused John to audibly take in a breath.

"Stay away from my wife. And Sherlock. Do you hear me? Don't you touch either of them."

The consulting criminal laughed. "I've heard that they can both look after themselves, John. Isn't that odd, that they don't need their little doctor-pet to pick them up and make them better? Not that you'd help anyway."

"What was that, sorry?"

"Sherlock seems to be… drowning while you're at home playing happy families with your assassin wife. I need him up to form, or he's no fun."

"He's not going to be fun either way. He's not getting into one of your sick little games again," John said, but Moriarty could hear the worry in his voice; he'd help Sherlock snap out of it. He loathed the thought that the doctor would be the one who'd get the credit, but it would get the job done.

"See you soon, John," he sang, before hanging up and throwing his phone into the river he was walking over. He wouldn't need it from now on; his contacts knew how to find him, and he didn't need anyone else ringing him at inopportune moments. Besides, if they found it, it would be fun to watch the police search his call history and texts for clues as to what he was going to do – he'd thrown a few ridiculous red herrings in there to do with elephants in tiny rooms and the occasional terrorist plot. It would keep them out of the way, at least.

All that was left to do now was wait. He hated it, but with such a wonderful prize at the end of it…

He'd live.


	6. Chapter 6

Six months later, Sherlock was back to full strength – Moriarty believed so, at least. He'd been testing the detective every now and again; a serial killer who kills by heart attack one week, a fake terrorist plot the next. On the odd occasion, Moriarty would see something wrong – such as the time when Sherlock dropped the killer's gun like it was a hot potato, or when his hands shook from withdrawal – but there was nothing major. The good doctor seemed to have talked his friend out of his guilt, and stayed close by even with his own child to look after and another on the way. Even better, Sherlock still hadn't noticed his lost phone. With anyone else, it would be a sign of degraded observation, but with Sherlock, it implied what Moriarty's contacts had said in no uncertain terms – the detective was less social, less connected. Moriarty assumed it was a mixture of mistrust and fear of getting back into old habits, as Sherlock hardly ever used his homeless network any longer. He'd even got rid of his despicably annoying protégé. Things were different, but Moriarty welcomed it now, rather than being annoyed by it; their game had a different dynamic, something that it needed after all that had happened. It was a new challenge, a clean slate – and Jim was loving it.

But now it was time to get back to his original plan. His web had slowly, quietly, and secretly been built back up; Sherlock was back in the midst of everything; Annie – Mary – was as stubborn and protective as ever; Scotland Yard had found his phone and were very busy puzzling over it. Everything was in place, just as Moriarty had wanted it. Besides, he was getting bored – even messing with Sherlock got to be run-of-the-mill sometimes. He needed the excitement that round two would give him.

And so he got into Seb's car and drove to the Watsons' home.

Mary had left for the weekend, Seb told him as they drove out to the Watsons' new home in a nicer, safer part of London. She was visiting 'friends' in Yorkshire, and wouldn't be back for a few days – if she ever came back – though of course she hadn't told John how dangerous it was. He liked his friends and family dangerous, not _in_ danger.

"Don't elaborate on the facts, Seb," Jim said. "It doesn't suit you."

His right-hand man just laughed and continued driving, humming quietly along with the radio.

Moriarty tuned out the incessant and unpleasant noise. He needed to focus on his plan. John was definitely at home – he'd sent him a text from Sherlock's phone to ask him, and said that he'd go over because there was something he wanted his friend to see. John would see it as out of character, but it would keep him in his house for at least the next ten minutes, and his guard would be up only for odd Sherlock shenanigans – he wouldn't be expecting Moriarty to turn up.

However, the kidnapping was the simple bit; leaving Sherlock clues that weren't too obvious nor to ridiculously small would be the trick. He wanted to hand his nemesis the information he needed without him noticing. He wanted to challenge Sherlock in a way that he'd never been challenged before. He wanted to see his face as he realised that he'd failed his best friend, the person who had dragged him out of the hole he'd thrown himself into. He wanted to end the John/Sherlock romance speculation in the papers. He wanted Sherlock to know that he had been bested. He wanted to burn the heart out of him.

So he'd thrown a few red-and-not-so-red herrings into the works; he'd sent a rumour around that he was in America, pursuing Mary, and got one of the criminals in his web to post hate and death threats on John's blog. He'd even gone to the trouble of setting up a crime syndicate for Sherlock and John to bust, with one of the criminals who were able to get away from the arresting officers shouting, "I'll kill you!" as he ran off into the distance. Moriarty hoped that Sherlock would believe everything was linked, and try to look more deeply into it than he had to – when they had kidnapped John, they would be taking him to the crime syndicate's main office, not the place the anonymous commenter bought his shoes. Hopefully, Sherlock would find himself immersed in a series of wrong turnings and lies as Hansel and Gretel's bread trail was staring him in the face.

But if Sherlock wasn't stupid enough to fall for his tricks – or was stupid enough not to be able to read into his tricks – well. Things would become even more interesting.

Moriarty shook his thoughts away as he felt the car slow to a stop. Seb looked at him with a crazed grin and checked that the safety was off on his gun. "We're here, boss. Any final orders?"

The consulting criminal smiled. "Try not to be _too_ gentle."

Moriarty knocked on John Watson's door, whistling while he waited for the man to answer it.

"He likes to take his time," Seb said. Jim rolled his eyes at his assistant but said nothing – he didn't want John hearing him speaking and get out his wife's gun.

Keys rattled in the lock and the door opened. "Sherlock –" John stopped dead as he saw who was actually waiting on his doorstep. "Moriarty."

"You two boys never do check before answering, do you? It's messy." He smiled.

"What are you doing here?"

"I've come to kidnap you, of course." He stepped forward into John's space, but the doctor didn't move away. Moriarty pondered if it was fear or pride that stuck him in place. "I've always wanted my own live-in one, and since Sherlock and Annie have both had their fun with you…"

"Annie? Who…"

Moriarty winced. "Oh, yes. So-rry," he sang. "I forgot that you don't even know your own wife's name. I ruined the mystery, didn't I?"

John shook his head. "How do you…?"

Moriarty rolled his eyes. "You could at least pretend to be scared of being kidnapped, John. I know it's happened a few times lately, but surely the magic hasn't worn off? It's our first time, after all. I want it to be special."

John snorted. "What could kidnapping me possibly gain you?"

"Everything." He jerked his head at Seb, and the big man grabbed John, sticking him with a syringe and emptying the contents into his jugular vein. John went limp almost instantly, and Seb began openly dragging him to the car. Moriarty wondered how many nosy neighbours the Watsons had; being spotted would make it all too obvious for Sherlock.

"See any twitching curtains, Seb?"

"Three."

"Got your silencer?"

"Of course, boss."

"Then hurry up and shoot them. We're on a schedule."

The noise of silenced bullets, more of a vibration in the pit of one's stomach than a sound, made Moriarty smile. The shattering of windows, however, wasn't quite as pleasant and was certainly more conspicuous. He walked quickly over to the passenger side of the car and got in as Seb revved the engine, letting the car rocket them away from the scene of their crime.

"Why did we do that so haphazardly, again?" Seb asked, face puckered into that little frown he got whenever they killed innocents.

Moriarty sighed and refused to answer. Seb might have been smarter than was usual, but he was still ordinary. "Is everything set up at the warehouse?"

"Yeah. I got out the torture shit too, just in case you want to have a little fun." The ordinary man grinned playfully and glanced in the back of the car at the unconscious John.

Moriarty smiled back. Hurting John had never been part of the plan, but on the other hand, he'd have a lot of waiting to do while Sherlock either worked it out or didn't… he'd need something to keep him occupied. "Tell them to get it all ready. John and I are going to have a little… chat."


	7. Chapter 7

Jim sat and stared at John's face as he waited for the good doctor to wake up. He was tied to a chair, so he couldn't have been comfortable. Jim's eyes darted to the poker on the floor. He'd be a lot less comfortable when the drugs wore off.

John moaned and rolled his neck. His arms jerked as he realised they were tied to the chair arms, and his eyes shot open.

Jim stood up. "John," he cooed, picking the poker up. "How good to see you awake and well."

"Fuck off."

He tutted. "You see, that's what I don't like about you, John – no manners at all." He grabbed the poker off the dirty concrete and looked at it. It would have been more fun if there was a way to heat it, but unless he could find a blow torch, it would have to do. "No understanding of society or the way people work."

John snorted, though it almost sounded more like a sob than anything else. "Are you sure you're not talking about yourself? Or Sherlock?"

Jim stroked the pointy end of the poker down the side of his captive's face. "A year ago, Sherlock came back from the dead. I hear you weren't too relieved about that. Is that why you didn't help him when he needed help?"

He flinched but didn't say anything.

"Come on, John. We're all friends here. Tell me the truth – did you abandon him knowingly? Did you get distracted by your wife and your happy new family? What's your girl's name again?"

"Eleanor." John gulped, and stared into Jim's eyes. "Keep away from her."

Jim laughed. "What would I want a baby for? They're even less fun than _adult_ ordinary people. No, I was just asking because… well, your wife too her to visit family, didn't she?" He added more pressure to the poker, glad that Seb had sharpened it just a touch as it grazed the skin of John's neck and he had to bite his lip against the pain.

"Friends in Yorkshire, yes."

"Oh yes, of course. She doesn't have family, our wife. Not that you know of, anyway." His phone beeped, and he glanced down at it. "Oh look – you've been reported missing. Wonderful news. But back to the point – your wife doesn't have very many friends, being an assassin. The life of a smart criminal is a very lonely one you see, John."

John frowned. "What… what are you trying to imply?"

Jim tutted. "We're getting off topic. I just wanted to have some _fun_." He rested the poker against John's abdomen and pushed, hard, until it entered the doctor's stomach, just a few inches below his rib cage. He cried out, and Jim smiled. "That's more like it. Now, shall we make things interesting?"

John gasped, shaking his head and muttering while trying to get his arms out of their restraints.

"I'll take that as a yes. How many different ways do you think I can hurt you before Sherlock finds you, John?" He twisted the poker and John screamed.

No reply.

Jim pulled the poker out and pushed it back in on John's other side. "I like to think we're friends, John, but I would prefer it if you'd ANSWER ME!"

"Ten," the doctor said in a choked voice.

"Well, that's not very ambitious. But okay then. I'll make sure to draw your torture out – try to make it last, what, two days? If Sherlock doesn't turn up before we run out of different torture methods, I'll kill you. How's that?"

He coughed and spat blood. Jim thought he'd missed everything vital, but perhaps not. Still, he was sure that the doctor would be able to patch himself up.

"And if he does turn up?"

Moriarty smiled. "It'll be in his hands then. I keep and kill you… or I get him, to do what I want with.

"Sound like a fair bet?"

Forty hours later, Jim was on his very last torture tactic. He'd done everything he could think of – using the poker, using the blowtorch he'd gone to find to heat up the poker, left food and medical supplies just out of John's reach for a few hours, untied the doctor in a show of giving up before recapturing him, and so on and so forth. He'd used all his favourite physical and psychological torture strategies, and now it was time for the emotional ones.

He looked at his watch and tutted. "Sherlock is taking his time. By the last update Seb gave me, he wasn't even looking for you. He'd given up, because he couldn't see the forest for the trees and it hurt his pride." It was a lie, of course; Sherlock had quickly got past the shoe shop idea and moved onto another theory, then another, then another… and then another. In fact, he'd probably blasted through more theories than Jim had torture techniques. However, he hadn't given up – he was now, Seb said, listening a little closer when Lestrade suggested less ridiculous theories. It was just a matter of time until he found his way to the warehouse.

"Lie," John said. He didn't have the breath (or the ability to move his jaw) to say anything else.

"Well –" Jim broke off as Seb sauntered into the room and whispered in his ear. "Oh. Looks like you're going to be a father for the second time, John. Shame you're going to miss all the fun in the hospital, though, isn't it?"

The doctor looked immeasurably sad and furious but said nothing.

Jim laughed as he heard the door close behind Seb. "Sorry, did I say for the second time?"

John blinked.

"How do you think Mary found you, by magic? You think that a contract killer just happened to start working in your practice? Wow, maybe ordinary life is more exciting than I thought."

"Shut up."

Jim ignored John's angry words and smiled. "Your Mary…" He whistled. "She's good in the sack, isn't she?"

The battered and bruised man caught what Jim was trying to suggest. "No."

"You've had better?" Jim raised his eyebrows. "Wow. Well, now I feel inadequate."

"My daughter –"

"Was with your wife when the shock of finding out you were kidnapped sent her into premature labour, yes. It's a good job they weren't still in Yorkshire, visiting the little baby's family, isn't it?"

"Friends."

He laughed. "If by 'friends', you mean Annie's – Mary's, sorry – then I suppose you could be right. My mum always had a soft spot for her."

John shook his head, then winced at the pain it caused him.

Jim let out a breath. "You look a sorry sight, John. Mary is not going to be pleased with me. But at least I did as I promised and haven't told you about that time she had a sniper rifle pointed at – oops."

"You…" Unable to finish his sentence, Watson closed his eyes in pain.

Jim was about to dive further into the emotional torture when he heard the door open.

"Boss, he's on his way here."

_Wonderful._


	8. Chapter 8

When Sherlock burst through the door, Moriarty and his captive were waiting for him.

"Sherlock!" Moriarty smiled, glad that his nemesis had come alone. "How nice of you to visit. Especially as John here is so ill." He stroked his captive's face, and John flinched away.

"What game are you playing?" Sherlock asked, hands in his coat pockets and collar up, just like the old days.

"Oh, no game, Sherlock. That would be uncouth. No, this is more of a bargain than a game."

"And what are we bargaining for?" The detective cast nervous glances at his ex-flatmate, whose head had begun to loll.

"For John. He wants to go home to his wife and their new baby, poor chap. And I imagine you want to make that happen for him," he said, bitterness hiding in his voice as he thought of all the care Sherlock gave to this ordinary little man.

"And what do you want for him?"

Moriarty shook his head, thinking of the months following his grand reveal to the world that he wasn't dead. Looking at Sherlock now, he could hardly reconcile the idea that he had then been a drugged-up, depressed, guilt-ridden man of ordinary proportions. He seemed so confident now, so relaxed.

Well, that wouldn't last long.

"I want you. It's a high price, I'll admit. But I think you're willing to pay for it."

Sherlock took a breath. "You called it a bargain. That means I can suggest different terms."

"Sure."

"I call Lestrade and have you arrested."

Moriarty sighed. "That's not a bargain. When have we ever let the police fight our battles, Sherlock? It's boring."

"You say you want me. Could you elaborate?"

He hadn't expected that question, and the tone that suggested the hundreds of different possibilities there were to it. It was foolish, but somehow, he hadn't thought past getting his enemy, having control over him.

But he wasn't going to tell Sherlock that.

He nodded his head at John. "Not in front of the kids, Sherlock. Don't want him getting jealous."

"Three months."

"Excuse me?"

Sherlock had his eyes fixed on John, who no longer seemed to be conscious. He spoke quickly. "Do whatever you want with me for three months. Then I leave."

Moriarty shook his head; something about the endangerment of John's life – of the life of anyone Sherlock loved – made him… well, _stupid_. "Sloppy, Sherlock. Sloppy."

It hadn't used to, Moriarty mused as the detective walked quickly over to his friend to check his pulse. He remembered a time when John had had a bomb strapped to him, and Sherlock had been almost disturbingly calm. Perhaps it was his own brush with death – either his own faux-death or Magnussen's real one – or perhaps it was the care that John had put into looking after him. Either way, the information collected from round one was obsolete; just because Sherlock hadn't died for his friends wouldn't mean he wouldn't now.

Change was a wonderful thing.

"Time's running out, Sherlock. What's your decision?"

"No."

"Excuse me?" Moriarty cocked his head, his smile dying. Had he underestimated his enemy's ruthlessness?

Sherlock put a hand into his pocket. "I don't care for your games, Moriarty. Not anymore." He frowned and patted his pockets. "I'll ring the police, let them deal…"

The criminal tutted, taking Sherlock's phone out of his own pocket and shaking it. "Look what I have. Honestly, I'm surprised it took you this long to notice I expected you to realise when I took John, at the very least – how did you think I'd got him to open the door?"

"How long have you had it?"

"Since I came to see you." He tossed the phone at Sherlock and the man caught it easily, a confused look on his face. "I'm not surprised you don't remember," he added, trying to cover the pang of anger and sadness he felt. "You were a mess."

Sherlock started tapping at his phone, looking nervously at his adversary every few seconds.

"Ah. That's what you were confused about." He picked up the poker sat next to John's chair. "You're not the only one that tests the emergency services, Sherlock. SEB!"

The door behind Sherlock opened. "Yes boss?"

Moriarty ignored him. His heart was beating too fast – this could only go a certain amount of ways, and not many would keep him out of jail. Even less would keep him in Sherlock's good graces. "It will take your precious Scotland Yard thirty-two minutes to get here. The ambulance will take about ten minutes more. Do you think John will make it?"

Sherlock stopped tapping. "I don't know."

"What do you think, Seb?"

"It'll be touch-and-go, boss." The man grinned. "I don't know what you did to him –"

"Yes, that's enough, Seb," Moriarty said, rolling his eyes. "He's a doctor, you know. I thought, since you had one…" He trailed off and shrugged. "Fair's fair."

Sherlock put the phone up to his ear. "I'll take the risk." He clearly hadn't heard anything that had just been said.

Moriarty rolled his eyes. "Well, if that's how you're going to be…" He lifted the poker up and slammed it into John's stomach.

"John!" Sherlock dropped the phone and ran over to his friend, staring helplessly at the wound that was spurting out John's lifeblood.

"I don't know if you've noticed, but he's going to die soon. There's no way an ambulance will be able to revive him. Seb, however… well, he has a chance of it. Now, Sherlock –" He grabbed his enemy's face with the hand he'd held the poker with, forcing Sherlock to look at him. "What is your decision?"

The broken man took in a shuddering breath. "Yes. Yes. FIX HIM!"

Jim smiled, and signalled Seb to come forward. "Well done. Well done." He patted his adversary on the shoulder. "A good choice." He slowly leant down and picked up the shovel Seb conveniently dropped on his way to his patient. "Thank you, Sherlock. Thank you."

The detective's eyes widened as he recognised the words, saw what Jim was reaching for – but it was too late.

The shovel slammed into his head, and he fell to the ground.


	9. Chapter 9

Moriarty smiled as Sherlock slowly woke up. There was something satisfying about having the consulting detective and his blogger sat there, together. Both of them at his mercy – one of them already having been shown how much mercy he truly had, and the other… Well, the other being Sherlock.

"Moriarty…" Sherlock wheezed, spitting blood. The wound Moriarty had inflicted had been a little more serious than he'd expected; the immediacy of the situation had got the better of him.

"Please, call me Jim," he said. "After all, we're all friends now, aren't we?"

"I thought… John…"

Jim shrugged, fighting a smug smile. "You asked me to fix him, not release him." He looked at the doctor and felt a small pang of regret – not for what he'd done to him, of course, but for Annie. They'd had their ups and downs, their tugs-of-war, but this might have been too far. She was too good a shot for him to want to lose, and the mutilation of her child's father might be just enough to lose her.

"You broke our deal."

"No, you just didn't realise what you were agreeing to. It's your own fault, Sherlock. All of this is your fault."

Sherlock slowly raised an eyebrow, wincing when it pulled at the wound Jim had inflicted. "The person who's tied up tends to be the victim."

Jim scoffed. "Ordinary-people logic. How… quaint. No, this is your fault, Sherlock. This is all your own doing."

The captive stayed silent, instead alternating his gaze between his captor and the friend who didn't seem to be waking up.

"Have you never wondered why I returned, Sherlock?" Jim asked, truly wondering what Sherlock thought. He could foresee almost all of Sherlock's motivations, views and actions, but when it came to Sherlock's views on himself, he had an annoying blind-spot.

"Boredom, I imagine." He shifted, clearly chafing against his bonds. Jim wondered if it was an honest need to be free of them or if the man simply itched to tower over his opponent like he usually did.

Jim nodded. "You know me so well, Sherlock! But that's not the only reason…"

The captive raised a cocky eyebrow. "To find out how I did it?"

Jim's smile died, reminded of that evening in Sherlock's flat. "You ruined yourself with drugs and guilt, Sherlock."

"And you wanted to help out, is that what you're saying? That's why you came back? Why, I didn't know you had a heart."

Jim snarled and leant down so he was face-to-face with the man, close enough that they could feel one another's breath on their faces. "Don't ever presume that you know my motivations. Don't presume that feeling is beyond me, Sherlock. Nothing is beyond me."

Sherlock's smile fell and he took on a more serious expression. "Then why?"

Jim pulled away. "To have fun," he said lightly. "Because the Reichenbach case has always been just the first step in my plan. Because your death in Eastern Europe would ruin that plan. Many reasons, really."

"And what's your plan, Moriarty?"

Jim tensed at Sherlock's inability to say his first name. "Would it make me more human?" he asked.

"What?"

"If you called me Jim. Would it make me seem more human to you? Do you refuse to do it because you daren't see me as a person? Because if you saw me a person…"

"What's your plan, Moriarty?" Sherlock repeated. "If you're going to kill me anyway, you might as well tell me. Give me that satisfaction before I die, at least."

Jim laughed. "You think I'm going to kill you? Have you not listened TO A WORD I'VE SAID?!" He took a deep breath. "No. No, of course you haven't. You never do listen, do you, Sherlock? You're too wrapped up in your silly little deductions to see what's in front of you."

"I found you, didn't I?"

Jim paused. He couldn't understand, could he? "Go on."

"You faked clues and left the truth obvious. You wanted to see if I really am too wrapped up in my deductions to see what's right in front of me – that this was all you, all along. I wouldn't have found you if I couldn't listen, now could I?"

He smiled. "You're right, Sherlock. You passed my test. Well done."

"Doesn't passing the test give me a right to know what you're going to do to me?"

"Not really, Sherlock. No."

"Tell me anyway. It'll make life more interesting – that's what you want, isn't it? To make life less boring."

"No. I want you to listen to me for once, Sherlock Holmes."

The captive smiled as if he thought he was the one with the power. "Go on, then. I'm listening."

"I was going to come back because I always planned to. I came back when I did to make sure I didn't lose you out of my game. You're my favourite chess piece, Sherlock," Jim whispered into Sherlock's ear.

The man shook his head. "We've been through this. I asked you what your plan was, not why you planned it and carried it out as you did."

Jim shrugged. "I'm enjoying stretching this out. It's been so long since we've talked. I came up against a few obstacles when I returned. The most important one was you. Drugs don't do you any good, Sherlock. I tried to tell your brother, but he was clearly too scared of you to do anything about it. So I had to postpone my plan while I got rid of all the drug dealers in London and shook a bit of guilt and care into your little pet."

"You're the reason why I've not been able to find a dealer for the past six months? And why John just… randomly appeared?"

"Yes. I did all of this –" He waved his hand vaguely. "For you."

"Why? Are ordinary people really that boring that I'm the only one who can keep you occupied?" Sherlock's voice was full of venom and disgust, but Jim didn't let it get under his skin – this was how they talked. Sherlock didn't really feel that disgust. It was just the part he'd been given in this game. He didn't feel it.

He hoped.

"Oh, I can always find something to occupy myself with, Sherlock. John's wife is always a good diversion – even when she's playing Mother Hen to you two and her child. No, I didn't do this because I was bored."

His heart felt like it was about to beat out of his chest. Could he tell the truth to Sherlock about something he refused to even admit to himself?

"Then why?"

There was only one way to find out. "I love you, Sherlock Holmes."


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock just sat there, unable to reply. Unwilling. Jim wished he'd say something, just to break the tension. He was usually a fan of the stuff, but when it came after a declaration of love… Love. It was an emotion only ordinary people should feel. As Sherlock always said, caring is not an advantage. Not for them, anyway. And yet, they had both fallen into the trap of loving people.

Unfortunately, it seemed like, for Sherlock, Jim wasn't one of those people who was worth loving. And why would he be? Sherlock was on the side of the angels. He didn't understand that it was possible to kill for fun instead of necessity – even necessary deaths made the detective weak at the knees. To love him, Sherlock would have to accept him. And that was never going to happen.

"I –" Jim stopped talking as John started groaning. "Oh look. The pet is waking up."

Sherlock blinked and looked over at his friend, who was slowly coming around once again. Seb had said that he'd live, but Jim hadn't been so certain. The soldier-doctor was good at healing others, not himself. He'd had a limp for months after getting shot – Jim thought it unlikely that he'd pull through any real injury.

"John? John, can you hear me? Are you alright?"

John moaned and tried to move his hands. He really was a slow learner with the whole 'tied-up' situation.

_ Ordinary people._

"I never expected him to find his way back to the land of the living," Jim murmured, crouching down so he could look John in the eye. He had an unfocused look about him that suggested more of a stupor than a recovery of consciousness. "SEB!"

The thug walked in, holding a bag of medical supplies. "He awake, boss?"

Jim shrugged. "Not particularly, but it'll have to do." He motioned for Seb's phone.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked.

Jim unlocked the phone and glanced at his adversary. "Mary is a stubborn one, you know. She got Mycroft to send Seb here a message. She wants to see John, and let him see their child. I imagine she meant in person, but as we're a little tied up here," he smirked. "I suppose this will have to do." He started up the Skype application and slapped John's face. "Wake up, soldier boy."

"Don't touch him!" Sherlock snarled, reaching a hand out towards his friend.

Jim snorted. "I thought you were good at tying knots, Seb," he said, nodding at Sherlock's free arm.

"I said 'passable' actually, boss," Seb replied, getting plastic restraints out of his bag and putting them around Sherlock's wrists and the arms of his chair. "He can't get out of this, though."

Jim rolled his eyes and called Mary. "Tempting fate," he muttered as Mary declined his call. While fate was a lie that the ordinary people made up to suit their own flimsy beliefs, Jim knew that 'tempting fate' was really just tempting your own hubris. "Pride before a fall."

Seb glanced at his boss, clearly perplexed, but Jim waved him off. He wasn't going to explain to the cheerful murderer that he was trying to take his mind off the pain that Sherlock's non-refusal had caused. He wasn't going to explain what he'd refused. He wasn't even going to think about it.

"DAMN IT!" He shouted, kicking John's chair. "Why won't she answer?"

"Calm down, boss. We agreed that you'd text Mycroft the details."

Jim sighed. "Right. Okay." He tapped at the phone again.

_ Tell Mary to answer my calls – JM._

"Check on him while we wait," he said to Seb, and moved out of the way. The thug nodded and moved to where John was tied up. Jim stared at Sherlock as Seb messed about and the detective watched with concerned eyes. What was it about John that made him loveable? What was it about himself that made him not? Even his family didn't love him; they were just afraid of what he might do. Being a murderer didn't mean he couldn't be loved – Seb had a large family at home who knew exactly what he did for a living – so what was it? The idea seemed ridiculous, but was he… was there something wrong with him?

Seb's phone vibrated in his hand before he had to find the answer to his question.

_ She will answer you now. But she is under my protection – MH._

He shook his head at the idea of Mycroft looking after anyone but himself, his family, and the Crown. The Watsons must have made a very big impression.

"We're back on. Lights, camera, action!" he said with a smile as he re-opened Skype and called the new mother.

Mary's tired, unsmiling face popped up on the screen. "What do you want? When are you going to let John go?"

"Oh, I'm sorry! You wanted him back? I thought you just wanted to be able to see him. So sorry for the… miscommunication. Your husband isn't coming back any time soon, I'm afraid."

"You bastard!"

Jim tutted, a smile on his face as he took out his pain on the woman who could have been his saviour four years ago, the first time she set her sights on John Watson's head. "Sorry, Annie. The good news is that he at least knows your first kid wasn't by him. You don't have any secrets between you anymore. Would you like to talk to him?"

Mary pasted on a calm expression and nodded. It was always a bad thing when she looked calm, Jim had found. But it didn't matter; he was happy to let her try her best to get to him.

"Here you go then," he said, flipping the phone around so John could see the screen. "Sorry if he's a bit… vacant. He's been through the wars, you know." He leaned over and slapped John's face to get him to wake up a bit, but the man couldn't even raise his head. "Maybe more than a bit. Would you like to talk to Sherlock instead?"

Mary burst out crying. "Get him back to me, Sherlock," she said through her sobs. "Keep him safe."

"I will."

Mary hung up on the call.


	11. Chapter 11

Jim shrugged and casually threw the phone at Seb. "Women. Hormones. What can you do?"

"I never took you for the misogynist type," Sherlock said calmly.

Jim let out a controlled breath, glancing at Seb sauntering slowly out of the room. "You have a surprisingly large lack of knowledge when it comes to me."

"That's not out of my design… Jim." Sherlock tapped at the arms of his chair.

"Thank you, Johann Sebastian Bach," Jim muttered. "You've finally worked it out, have you?"

"Worked out what?" Sherlock kept tapping on the arm.

"The code."

"What code?"

Jim shook his head. "Johann Sebastian Bach wasn't just a composer. He was a tactician."

Sherlock nodded. "It was Morse code."

"Bad Morse code, but Morse code nonetheless. It was passable enough for the German army. But then, most things are."

"What was the message?" Sherlock asked, as if he didn't already know.

"'We have been discovered; flee at once.' Makes a catchy tune, doesn't it?" Jim began to pace, wondering what he could do with a dying doctor and a detective who didn't love him. He put a hand to the gun he kept in a holster in his jacket, but quickly moved it away; there was a reason he'd paid for one that wouldn't be visible under his jacket. He didn't want Sherlock guessing it was there.

"But what does it have to do with… us?" The detective paused, and Jim couldn't tell if it was reluctance to refer to himself in conjunction with his enemy or reluctance to ask a question and look like a fool.

"Nothing. It was a puzzle to keep you occupied."

"Ironic. I thought you murdered people to keep _yourself_ occupied." Sherlock's voice was full of anger.

"Death is a part of my job, Sherlock. As it is yours. Pretension doesn't suit you."

"But_ I_ don't –" He stopped abruptly, yanking at the plastic ties around his wrists.

Jim smiled. "John and I talked a lot before – well…" he nodded at the man, who seemed to have lost the tiny amount of consciousness he'd gained. "He told me a little bit about when you met. One of your Scotland Yard friends told him 'one day there'll be a body, and it'll be Sherlock Holmes who put it there'. Seems to me like they were right."

Sherlock dipped his head, taking up a similar position to the one of his unconscious friend. The room was silent, and all Jim could hear was the detective's heavy breathing. "Magnussen deserved it. He was a danger to us all and there was nothing that the police could do. My brother was in business with him. There was no other way to get rid of him."

"To get rid of what he would do to Mary, you mean." Jim laughed. "Don't pretend you weren't being completely self-serving, Sherlock! We both know that you weren't worried for the general public. You didn't want the woman who shot you to be hurt." He tipped his head back in thought. "That's pretty kinky, actually. I always thought you were straight-laced, Sherlock. _On the side of the angels_, as you so graciously put it."

Sherlock raised his head, looking Jim right in the eye. "You're misquoting me. I may be on the side of the angels, Moriarty, but I am _not_ one of them."

Jim rolled his eyes to hide his pain. "Back to the last names! How disgustingly formal of you, Holmes. I feel as if we're back at boarding school."

"I never went to boarding school."

"I didn't, either."

Sherlock sighed. "I'm not on the side of the angels, Jim. Not anymore. I know that – you don't have to tell me what I've done."

Jim didn't say what was on his mind – that Sherlock was still on the side of the angels, even if he was leaning more towards the Sodom and Gomorrah, vengeance type – because if being one of the good people in this world was how the detective slept at night, Jim didn't want to help with the insomnia. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was edging onto midnight. Time just flew when you were causing pain. "On that note, gentlemen, I'd best be off. Have a goodnight – and don't let the bedbugs bite." He turned on his heel and began walking briskly to the door.

"Wait!" Sherlock shouted. Jim stopped, closing his eyes at the momentary hope that maybe, just maybe, the daring little idiot would return his affections.

The wet, hacking noise John was making tore that hope down and bent it backwards on itself. It was a sound Jim knew well – that of a man coughing up his own blood. He closed his eyes again, but this time it was in annoyance; he needed his beauty sleep if he was going to work out what to do with the men who only ever seemed to bring him trouble. But he wouldn't get that if he let John die. "SEB!"

The doctor-and-killer-and-doctor-killer jogged through the door. Jim had long ago stopped wondering why the man never seemed to move out of shouting distance.

"He appears to be dying. Try to fix him. Don't wake me if you can't."

Seb seemed to waver. "You want me to just leave him if I can't help?"

Jim rolled his eyes. "I just can't get the staff these days. If you can fix him, even just prolong his life, then do it," he said carefully. "If the only way to make him better is to take him to a hospital, wait a few hours and then dump his body wherever you see fit. Okay?"

Seb visibly paled – he seemed to have grown fond of his angelic counterpart – but nodded. "Yes, boss."

"Thank you. Now, can I finally get some sleep?" Jim asked, walking out of the door.

"I don't think so," Mary said as she put her gun to his head.


	12. Chapter 12

Jim's mouth quirked into a smile. "Annie. Good to see you."

"Where's John?" She asked, pressing her gun harder against his head. "What have you done to him?"

Jim pointed behind him, towards the room where John was dying and Seb was trying to patch him up. "I wouldn't if I were you. Seb's a bit busy, and distracting him…" He clicked his tongue. "Well, unless you brought an entire hospital with you…"

"She brought _me_." Mycroft stepped out of the shadows, swinging his umbrella as if he hadn't a care in the world.

"I thought you hated field work," Jim said, starting to get worried; Mycroft would never leave his little government-nest without back-up.

"I do. But you seemed to be breaking our agreement."

Jim rolled his eyes, trying to keep his temper under control; this was the swimming pool bully all over again. "I never agreed, Mikey. Pay attention."

Mycroft moved closer to him. "You hurt John Watson, you hurt Sherlock. And from what Mary's told me, you've hurt John Watson."

Jim grunted, stepping back from Mycroft and Mary's gun. "Why do you all assume that they're together – Annie's married to him and she thinks they're together. Why are you all so stupid?!" He hadn't meant to shout, but his voice echoed throughout the warehouse.

There was a pregnant pause until he heard Seb shout, "You alright back there, boss?"

"No. How is the good doctor doing?"

"I'm doing great boss, thanks for asking. John's… hanging in there. He could do with a hospital."

The usually calm and collected Mary put a hand to her throat, the only sign of emotion Jim had ever seen her show whilst holding a gun.

"What are you doing here, Annie?" Jim asked, trying to hide his contempt. "Shouldn't you be with John's child? Shouldn't you be recovering? I've heard that childbirth is a torturous experience."

Mary shook her head. "Your mother's looking after the children. Eleanor is fine, by the way."

Jim rolled his eyes again, but this time it was more forced. _Caring is not an advantage. _"Wonderful. I'm assuming John chose the name? It's very pedestrian."

Mary shifted her grip on her gun. "My choice. I thought you'd approve, Jim."

"You think that because I have a boring name, I'd want our child to? Annie, I feel insulted that you don't know me better than that."

"Boss?"Seb shouted from the other room. "He really does need a hospital. I know what you said before –"

Jim sighed; he respected the doctor-killer, but he really couldn't keep quiet. "I will _skin_ you."

"Getting old, boss! What am I doing?"

Mary cocked her head at him. "Jim."

"Take him to the nearest hospital, Seb. Quickly."

"Sure thing, boss."

They all listened as Seb's footsteps (and a painful scraping noise) grew distant.

"Is Sherlock in there?" Mycroft asked.

Jim nearly screamed at the man, but stopped himself as he heard a cough coming from outside. They weren't alone. "Let's go see him, shall we?" He opened his arms wide, gesturing for Mycroft to go ahead of him. The man strolled past like he owned the place – like his brother wasn't tied up in the next room. Jim had always respected Mycroft; there was something about him that defied explanation. His decisions were always cold and rational. He didn't get any pleasure out of anything – though he did find it possible to feel displeasure at many of the situations he found himself in. It was a shame Jim hadn't been able to lure him into his little games.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft called as he walked into the room. "Sherlock!" His pace quickened and Moriarty followed him into the room, worried Seb had gone above and beyond his duties – it wouldn't be the first time.

He breathed a sigh of relief as he turned a corner and saw Sherlock sat in his chair, hands out of the restraints and a smug expression on his face. "Brother mine, how wonderful to see you."

"Mary thought we needed to rescue you, but apparently she underestimated you," Mycroft replied archly, checking his little brother for wounds. He frowned when he saw the head wound Moriarty had inflicted. "I told you not to hurt him."

Jim rolled his eyes. "No lasting damage, Mr Holmes. And, as I already mentioned, I DID NOT AGREE TO YOUR TERMS!"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow but said nothing, and Jim realised he'd lost that round. Again. He always seemed to lose when Mycroft was around. His temper slipped through his fingers like sand. Perhaps it was jealousy; John might be Sherlock's favourite pet but there were only two people he knew that truly understood him. One of them was Jim, as much as Sherlock might not want to admit it, and the other… well, the other was his annoying older brother. And Mycroft had a much more amiable relationship with the detective than Jim did.

Mary pressed her gun against the back of Jim's head again. To say they had a child together, she was supremely distrustful of him. "Where did Seb take John?"

He stuck his hands in his pockets and turned to face her. "Not gonna say hello to Sherlock? I thought you had better manners than that, Annie. It might make him think you don't like him."

Mary narrowed her eyes. "I imagine shooting him did a better job of that. Now, what did Moran do with my husband? And don't insult my intelligence by telling me that he really took him to the hospital."

"He really took him to the hospital." Jim shrugged. "Sorry, Annie, but it's the truth. Call if you don't believe me, but I'm afraid that my lieutenants always seem to have a soft spot for the man."

She looked suspicious but dialled a number on her phone with one hand, still keeping the gun and her eyes locked on Jim.

With that about to be sorted, Jim turned back to look at the Holmes brothers. They seemed to be conversing quietly about something or other – probably how many agents Mycroft had stationed outside. Jim had at first been worried that the police were outside, until he realised that he'd be able to hear more racket than just one cough – Mycroft had brought his silent spies and Mary had brought Lestrade. Apparently they were worried that they wouldn't even be able to pin a kidnapping on him.

Finally they were realising how good he truly was.

"You were right," Mary said. "He's at St Bart's now, recovering."

Jim smiled, still keeping his back to her. "Hate to say 'I told you so…'"

"As do I," Mary said. "I always told you that this would all come to an end around you one day, Jim. Today is that day."

And finally, Mycroft's spies ran in to join the party, Lestrade on their heels.


End file.
